


Yes, Princess

by the_100_sin_bin_1985



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, First Time, Incest Kink, Incest Play, Sex Lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_100_sin_bin_1985/pseuds/the_100_sin_bin_1985
Summary: from last year's kink meme!  Clarke's never been with a man and she wants to learn from someone she trusts.





	

The problem is straightforward and simple.

Or, not even a problem, really.  A question.  Something she wonders about.

She’s nineteen and has only ever dated girls.  She’s only ever _known_ girls, really; raised by a single mother with a circle of women friends, sent to all-girls schools where her own friend group echoed Abby’s.  She was so young when Jake died, barely remembers him really. 

Marcus is the only man in her life.

He has always been there, the only constant in her life besides Abby.  The only man she loves and knows and trusts.

So she comes to him with her problem – or question, wondering, whatever you call it – with perfect faith that she will be safe in his hands.

“I want to know what it feels like,” she says simply, and he stares at her for a long moment without blinking until her meaning becomes clear.

Marcus doesn’t know how to do this part of the parenting thing.  He made cakes for birthday parties and he taught her to drive but her mother is a doctor and he sort of assumed that would exempt him from having to be involved in the birds-and-the-bees stuff.  And she’s nineteen, she knows everything by now anyway.

He really thought he was in the clear on this.

But no, she says patiently, this isn’t a question for Abby.  Or for her friends, or the internet.  She’s bisexual, but everything she knows about men is theoretical. 

She doesn’t want someone to _tell_ her what it feels like, she explains.  She wants to _know_ what it feels like.

There’s a right answer and a wrong answer here.  But he’s alone in the bed he shares with Abby (who is working a double shift at the hospital tonight, he won’t see her until lunchtime) in nothing but a pair of silk boxers while a nineteen-year-old girl in a soft gray cotton shift that just grazes the middle of her soft creamy thigh is standing in his doorway, and the soft golden light from the hallway lamp makes her pale hair flicker like moonlight, and the voice inside him shouting that this is wrong gets drowned out by a softer, more seductive voice murmuring, _Isn’t it better that she learn this from a man who loves her more than anything in the world?_

He’s liked the girls she brought home, doesn’t understand why it hasn’t worked out with any of them (“Maybe because no one falls in love forever at nineteen,” says her mother dryly when he brings it up.  “I sure didn’t.  Did you?”).  But he remembers being a nineteen-year-old boy, he recoils protectively at the thought of some sweaty teenager pawing at her like she's a piece of meat.

She’s not asking for more than one night.

She’s not asking him to leave her mother for her.

She’s coming to the man she has trusted all her life to answer her most puzzling questions, and she’s asking a question only he can answer. 

His whole body is crying out, _yes._

He reaches out his hand, and she smiles and closes the door.

* * *

 

She’s soft where Abby is hard, and everything is different. 

Abby’s body is toned and small and strong, but Clarke is taller, softer, with silky curves and impossibly delicate skin.  She burrows down under the covers with him, and for a long time it’s just like any other night.  This part, they’ve done before – when she was young and had nightmares, or when her mother read her stories. 

But she wasn’t nineteen then.  She wasn’t asking, with wide innocent blue eyes, what he would feel like inside her.

He fluffs the pillow and lays her head down, leaning up on his elbow so he can look at her.  What he wants to ask is if she’s ever done this before with a woman – not the going-to-bed part, he knows she’s done _that,_ but the part that might hurt if this is her first time.  He fumbles the question, but she laughs back at him with the ghost of a teenage eyeroll.  Of _course_ she has.  Lexa had a whole drawer in the nightstand for this.

“But it’s different when it’s a _thing_ and not a _person_ ,” she insists.  “I want to feel what it’s like with someone who can feel it too.”

“Did it . . . did it feel good?” he murmurs, his voice low, somehow rough and gentle at the same time, as he strokes her pale gold hair away from her face.  “When she did it to you?  I mean, do you like it that way?”

Clarke nods, something eager flashing in her eyes.  “Really good,” she whispers, and Marcus swallows hard.  He’s swelling already, half-erect inside his boxers, skin flushed all over.  _If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right,_ he thinks to himself.  If he does nothing else, he’s going to make sure Clarke knows exactly what to expect of a man in bed.  He's going to give her everything he has.

“I’m going to . . . to touch you a little bit first, if that’s all right,” he begins hesitantly (why is _he_ the one that’s suddenly shy?), fighting to keep his voice carefully neutral.  He lowers his hands to the waistband of her polka dot cotton panties, looks up at her and waits for a nod of permission before tugging them gently off and sliding a heavy warm hand along the inside of each thigh.  “It’s important for you to be . . . _oh.”_ He breaks off suddenly, voice catching in his throat.

She’s absolutely _soaked,_ the silky hair of her cunt already damp and the delicate interior flesh hot and slippery.  “Is this enough?” she asks, and he doesn’t know what to say.

_She made herself wet for him._

“That’s really good, Princess,” he whispers, and she smiles warmly up at him, pleased by the use of the old nickname.  “Really, really good.”  He leans down and presses a kiss on her forehead as his fingers skate slickly between the heavy, meltingly warm labia, fluttering a little over her clit and making her squirm happily beneath him. 

He leans down, murmurs tenderly into her hair.  He wants to make her come like this first, he wants her open and yielding and soft.  He wants a flush of pink to sweep over her peaches-and-cream skin, he wants to watch her black eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, he wants to hear the soft little sighs as she gets closer and closer.  And he’s greedy, suddenly, now that she’s here in his arms, he’s not sure watching her come once will be enough, and whatever voice might once have been urging restraint has long since vanished because _Jesus Christ_ he wants this girl so badly.

She tells him yes – almost begging, a little, in her eagerness.  Yes, he can make her come like this first, to get her ready.  Yes, she likes the way it feels, his big powerful hand caressing her clit with such astonishing gentleness.  “Just breathe, Princess,” he murmurs, his body cradling hers as his busy hand strokes faster and harder, his cock straining desperately against the silk of his boxers as her wide blue eyes go unfocused and dizzy.  He’s good at this, good with his mouth and his hands; Abby loves to be touched like this too, though she likes him a little rougher; she likes bite marks on her throat and hard little pinches on her clit and she likes it when he fucks her so hard she has to bury her mouth in his shoulder to choke back a near scream.

But he can’t do that with Clarke.

He’s holding this soft pink-and-gold creature in his arms, and all he wants in the whole world is to make her feel good.  To leave her happy and sated, to know what her body likes and wants.  The protective father in him wants his baby girl to kick any man out of bed who doesn’t treat her like a princess.

“Marcus, I think I’m going to . . . I think – “

“Good girl,” he murmurs approvingly.  “Just let go.”

“Please,” she whispers, her low throaty voice making him shiver.  “Please.  Please.  Please.” 

The orgasm starts on her skin, a rosy flush swallowing up her snow-white breasts and throat as her mouth falls slack and her eyes drift closed.  He feels her begin to contract against his fingers as her whimpering cries grow louder and louder and he lowers his body against hers, blanketing her, holding her close, stroking her to the edge of the cliff and then cradling her tight as she tips over.

 A long soft stuttering cry rises up from deep inside her chest, and it sends a flush of excitement through him.  She’s not as loud as Abby, not as uninhibited or confident yet, but she lets herself go all the same, and he feels drunk off it.

As the waves die down, she gives a contented little sigh and stretch, like a cat, arching her back and then burrowing down into the pillows.  He leans down to kiss her hair, sliding his hands up underneath the soft cotton of the shift she’s rucked up over her hips, to palm her heavy, full breasts in his hands.

She’s so soft.  So warm.  So ready.

Then “Can I look at it?” she asks.  “I’ve never seen one.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to this, but she doesn’t wait for an answer, rolling him playfully over onto his back and sitting back on her heels to straddle him and tug his boxers off.  He’s mortified for some inexplicable reason that she’s seeing him rock-hard like this, but she’s entirely unfazed by it, leaning in to examine it and running curious little fingers up and down the vein.

“Does it look like you thought it would?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, and she furrows her brow, considering. 

“It’s so pink,” she says, stroking the flared head gently, running a curious finger through the dewy pre-cum already seeping out of the slit.  “And so big.  I’ve never done it with a fake one this big.”  She smiles at him.  “But I like it,” she adds, and then leans down to press a playful little kiss against the tip. 

He almost comes right there.

_Breathe, Marcus,_ he tells himself, swallowing the rising ache of climax back down low into his belly.  There’s a long way to go yet.

He wants to tangle his hands in her golden hair and tug her slack pink mouth down to see how deep she can swallow him, to pour himself hard and hot down her thirsty throat, but he doesn’t.

One thing at a time. 

He tilts her chin back up to look at him, and asks her what she’d like to do.  If she wants more control, he suggests, he can lie on his back and she can sit on top of him, bracing her hands on his chest.  She’ll drive the pace that way, and she can control how deep she wants to go.  But she shakes her head.  No.  She doesn’t want control.  She knows she’s safe – she knows the moment she began to feel even a little uncertain, he would instantly stop.  She has all the control she needs.  She doesn’t want to be in the driver’s seat here.

What she wants – phrased in the simplest terms possible – is for Marcus to fuck her.

And he doesn’t fight her on it, not even a little, because he wants that too.

He makes her comfortable, smoothing her hair out behind her head on the pillow and tugging the blankets close over their bodies, before bracing himself above her on his forearms and knees.  She slides one hand up to his neck, caressing the bristle of beard and the dark tangle of curls at the nape of his neck, and slides the other one down between their bodies to take his aching cock in her soft little fist.

“I’m ready,” she whispers, and guides him inside her.

Hesitation flies out the window and instinct takes over the moment her tight, pulsing warmth seizes him and pulls him inside.  All he wants is to make her feel good.  All he wants is to hold his baby girl’s trembling little body in his arms as she moans with pleasure.  If he’s the first man to fuck her, he’s going to do it so right that she never forgets how good it can feel and never settles for less than this.

“Oh,” she whispers, big blue eyes staring up at him.  “Oh God, Marcus, it’s . . . you’re . . . “

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs, stroking her hair.  “We can stop – “

“No, it’s so good,” she says.  “So good.  It’s just so _different,_ it feels . . . I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Do you think you can take a little more?”

She nods, breathless, and he slides in deeper until she’s taken about half of his length.  He’s bigger and thicker than anything else she’s ever had inside her, so even though she’s no stranger to the general sensation of being fucked by something powerful and strong, she’s never been fucked by Marcus Kane before.  He stretches her open, the flared head nudging deep inside her, and she can feel him throb against the soft wet pressure of her walls. 

“Oh,” she gasps.  “Oh, Marcus.”

And then the world stops moving as she suddenly, shockingly, kisses him.

This was not in the plan.

The kiss changes everything, shooting through his veins like an electric shock.  Her nose nudges at his own, her lips soft and dry and pressed tightly closed, lingering on his own for a long long moment, and then something inside him snaps.  The sound he makes is almost a growl, low and rumbling, as his tongue licks across the surface of her lower lip, pleading for entry, and the sound she makes is high and keening as she eagerly opens beneath him.  And he forgets himself, forgets that this was supposed to be about teaching her, forgets that he was supposed to maintain some level of self-control, and suddenly it’s all gasping and sighing and hot sweet breath and sweaty soft skin.  His hands skate up her sweat-sheened torso to clutch frantically at her breasts, rubbing her nipples between thumb and forefinger and making her squirm with delight.  He tears his mouth away from her hungry little kisses to nuzzle deeply into her neck, licking hot and hard against the soft skin.  “You feel so good, Princess,” he whispers into her ear, and she arches her back in response, one slim smooth leg wrapping around his waist to lock him in tight.

“More,” she whispers.  “Please.  Oh, please.”

So he slides in deeper, careful and slow, until he bottoms out inside her and a heavy groan shakes through both of them.  “Oh God, Princess, you feel so good,” he moans into her soft hair, cradling her face and kissing her again and again.  “You feel so good.”

But she can’t speak, can’t respond, chest heaving in huge, desperate, panting gasps of pleasure.  He can’t make out anything besides “oh” and “yes.”  Her fingernails digging into his back are the only response she can give, and the way her hips rise up off the bed to hammer into his.  She wants it hard and fast, she’s telling him with her whole body, and she’s always had him wrapped around her little finger, so as usual, he gives her exactly what she wants.

She comes before he does, crying out over and over with a pleasure so sharp it’s almost pain, burying her mouth in his neck so hard he can feel her sharp little teeth dig into his skin.  Her cunt floods hot wetness along the throbbing surface of his cock, and he’s close, he’s so close, but he’s not wearing a condom and he can’t possibly let himself cross that line and –

“No, please, I want you to,” she whispers, reading his thoughts, clutching at his hair, pulling him down to her, arms and legs pinning him tightly in place as he pistons in and out of her sweat-soaked, sticky body, and after that he can’t hold out anymore.  He bursts inside her, heavy and hard, and her eyes go wide at the startling new sensation. 

_This._ This was the thing she wanted to know.

He sinks down against her, his mouth finding the hollow of her jaw beneath her ear and kissing it lazily over and over as he catches his breath.

"Was that -"

"Yes," she murmurs, and he can hear the smile in her voice.  He leans up on his elbow to kiss her mouth again, one last time, while he still can, tugging at her lower lip with his own and brushing his tongue over hers as his body fades back down into stillness.

“I’m so glad it was you,” she whispers as he pulls away.  “I always wanted it to be you.”

 


End file.
